


At War With Ourselves

by moosesal



Category: Stop-Loss
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moosesal/pseuds/moosesal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brandon's world was turned upside down in the movie. This picks up just before the end and shows us what comes next in his life and how Steve and Michelle fit in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At War With Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brenda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/gifts).



> I don't think there's anything particularly triggering or difficult in this. However, there are references to a canon death and to Brandon (and others) dealing with PTSD.
> 
> Of note: In the movie, the boys are from Brazos, Texas, which isn't really close to a military base or to the border with Mexico. For purposes of my own sanity, I chose to imagine Brazos farther west, closer to El Paso, Fort Hancock, and a border crossing.
> 
> Thank you to my betas, without you this wouldn't even exist. Brandi -- you were evil, but wonderful to make me work on this again and again and again until I'd resolved all of your issues with it. Lydia -- A second set of eyes after all the time I spent revising this was needed more than you can imagine.

_Soldier boy, made of clay, now, an empty shell  
Twenty-one, only son but he served us well _  
\-- Metallica, “Disposable Heroes”

 

As they drove away from the Mexican border, he couldn't help glancing in the mirror at the possibilities behind him. If he crossed, he'd never be able to come back. If he returned to Iraq, he still might never come back. Both options sucked. But this way... this way still sucked. The thought of his parents having to take care of him if he ended up like Rico... Or worse, being presented with an American flag in front of an empty casket because there was nothing left of him to bury... At least in Mexico he’d be safe.

But there was Steve. And Steve was going back. Steve who thought the army was a good option for him. Stupid fucking Steve who’d reenlisted, who would go back to Iraq and then on to sniper training. Brandon focused on the road and ignored the bright lights of the border crossing behind him. His mind made up, even if he hated his choices.

At home in the driveway, Michelle held him, their foreheads touching as they breathed the same air saying nothing for a moment. There was nothing more to say. They pulled back from each other at the same time, exchanged a look he didn't want to put name to, and separated. She nodded at him then turned down the driveway. She stopped when she got to her car at the curb and hollered, "Bring him back to me.” She opened the car door, then looked up at him again. “Bring yourself back too." He waited until she pulled away before he headed inside the house.

*****

He told his parents he’d be back in an hour. Not to worry, but there was something he had to do. He wasn't surprised to find Steve standing there. Toes nudging the freshly turned earth, head bowed, lips moving with words Brandon was glad he couldn't hear. He'd said his own words to Tommy in the middle of the night, staring up at the ceiling he couldn't see in the darkness of his childhood bedroom. _Why?_ and _You stupid mother fucker_ and _I should've come back for you._ He figured those probably weren't the same thoughts running through Steve's head when he heard the whispered "amen" at the end.

"Hey," Steve said to him, his gaze fixed on Brandon’s cowboy boots.

"Hey."

"Not gonna be the same without him."

"No."

“Not gonna be the same without you, either.”

Nothing would ever be the same again. Tommy. Steve’s split from Michelle. Running away. Going back.

*****

The bus pulled away and he fought turning back to look at his mom, dad, Michelle. Steve was warm beside him; Brandon leaned in a little, pressing his body against Steve's and soaking it in.

"Did you..." Steve's words were quiet.

"What?" He looked over to see Steve staring at him, his expression pained.

"You and Michelle..." he trailed off again, but this time Brandon didn't need to ask what. He knew what Steve was asking and it didn't warrant a real answer.

"You're a fucking idiot."

"Fuck you." His face was stone, but his eyes told a different story. He was hurting as much as Brandon. Different reasons maybe, but the pain was no less real. "She said you didn't, but..." He closed his eyes and Brandon saw his jaw twitch. "You ran off with her," flew from his lips. "You ran off and you shared a motel room and ... and I just can't believe."

"She's your wife, you idiot."

"We're not married," he countered. “Hell, we’re not even together anymore.”

"Yeah. Cause you're a fucking idiot."

Steve's only response to that was to let his head fall against the window. He closed his eyes, but not fast enough to hide the moisture there.

*****

"King! Shriver! Boot wants to see you." The words came from Boot's lackey, Lt. Watkins. Brandon and Steve looked at each other and nodded almost imperceptibly, before moving forward in step with each other. It was natural, their synchronicity. Brandon figured it'd always been that way; now, in uniform, it stood out to him like it never had before. Not even on their previous tour. He knew as they entered Boot's make-shift office that they would be in step forever.

Even if it meant being sent home in side-by-side boxes.

*****

Two months into their deployment Brandon received a letter from Michelle and Steve punched him in the face. "I knew something happened," he yelled, leaning in so close their noses brushed.

Brandon calmly stepped back, worked his jaw a little to see if he needed to go the infirmary, then rolled his eyes. He looked down at the letter and started reading aloud, _"Dear Brandon, How are you? How's Steve? I hope you're looking out for him. I keep trying to write to him but I don't know what to say. I don't know if he even wants to hear from me. But I miss him. I saw his mama yesterday and we talked for a while. It's hard not having him here. It seems like the real army wives have a network, but I'm not part of that. Any connection I had before’s gone now."_ He paused and looked up to see Steve's eyes were closed, but he was listening. _"I hope you're keeping each other safe over there. I know you'll look out for him. You always have. I got a new job at Cuppa Joe’s. Your dad comes in most mornings...._ It goes on about my folks and the news from town. Here" -- he thrust the letter at Steve -- "go on and read it. The football team's lookin' good for State this year."

Steve took the letter, but let his hand fall to his side. He stared at Brandon and Brandon stared right back. It wasn’t their first standoff and Brandon hoped it wouldn’t be their last. "I shoulda married her," Steve finally whispered.

"Yeah. Well everyone knows you're not so bright. You'll marry her when we get home."

"But she--"

"No. You'll marry her when we get home." He said it with conviction. He knew it was true. It would happen, even if he had to hog-tie the two of them together and drag them up the aisle.

*****

Things happened in war. And in high school. Brandon had given Steve a blowjob once behind the gym. They’d been fifteen and too stupid to worry about getting caught. It had been sloppy and hurried and just the one time, but he'd always remember Steve’s hands in his hair and how no girl had ever seemed as grateful when he’d gone down on her.

On his first tour Brandon and Tommy had twice exchanged quick handjobs in the showers, Steve walking in the second time and freezing in the doorway. He hadn't said anything, just looked from Tommy to their cocks then to Brandon, then turned around and walked out.

Fucking Tommy had been stupid. Brandon had been responsible for him.

With Tommy gone, Brandon did what he should have done in the first place -- jerked off solo when he was certain no one was around. But with Steve nothing was ever certain. And when Steve found him in the showers, head under the spray, eyes squeezed shut as he jerked himself hard and fast, he'd come up and placed his hand over Brandon's. He was surprisingly gentle in his touch and Brandon stopped, swallowing the lump in his throat as he looked up at Steve through his lashes. "I've got you," Steve said before he slipped behind him, holding him up with one arm snug around his chest as he jerked him with the other.

The water from the showerhead washed away anything that might be mistaken for tears.

*****

The days, weeks, months were uneventful. Guarding a post. Searching cars. No one fired on them. No one tried to sneak through any bombs. If one could call a war zone boring, this would have been the time to do so. Nothing happened. Day after day after fucking day, nothing happened. IEDs went off all around them. Two guys at a barricade just three blocks away were taken out by an RPG hit on their Humvee. But in his unit… nothing beyond the bruises they gave each other horsing around. It was both terrifying and boring as shit. Brandon would have liked a little more boredom on their first deployment.

And then it was over and they were going home. Again. This time they were assured it was for good.

Steve was still talking about sniper training; he’d re-upped after all. He had Boot’s recommendation and had somehow passed the psych eval. He’d be off to Fort Benning in a month. Brandon, on the other hand, was done. If they tried sending him anywhere, this time he _would_ go to Mexico.

The bus pulled into town and there was no parade. No speeches from Boot about behavior on leave. Boot wasn't even there. Just a bunch of tired men on a rickety school bus, crammed two to a seat in a space made for ten year olds. Cracking their necks, shifting their legs, trying to stretch before they had to walk down the two steps to waiting mothers and wives and girlfriends. And ex-girlfriends.

Brandon looked out the window and saw his mama and Michelle on the edge of the crowd, his dad nearby talking to someone he recognized but couldn’t name. The crowd looked as tired as he and his men, ready for this to be over. Proof that war was hard on families, not just soldiers.

When he and Steve approached, his mama smiled. Then there were hugs and _God I missed you_ s and _Welcome home_ s and Brandon thought everything might be all right when Michelle kissed Steve instead of punching him in the face.

*****

They stopped at Tommy’s grave, then had dinner with Brandon’s parents before heading out to the ranch. It was Brandon’s first time there since before he’d run. He’d been too fucked up about everything to go there before redeployment. They pulled up by the cabin and he closed his eyes, uncertain where to look. The place was full of memories, the last of them bad ones. He knew Tommy hadn’t done it in the cabin, but that didn’t make it any easier to go in there. When he finally got out of the car, he walked past the cabin to his favorite log bench. He lasted all of ten seconds before he was up and moving again.

Eventually he settled at the base of a tree, nursing a beer, watching as Steve apologized to Michelle with his mouth and his hands. She straddled his lap and drank in every kiss, every caress, every word murmured against her flesh. Brandon's face flushed with heat when she turned and looked at him, her gaze hard and intense like it had been on the road more than once. It wasn’t an invitation or a “go away” or anything in between. It was just this weird connection he couldn’t... correction, wouldn’t put a name to. He dropped his gaze to Steve's boots then stood up, downed the rest of his beer, and headed inside to crash on his bunk.

Minutes later he jerked off to the sounds of her whimpers and Steve's grunts and _oh baby_ s and squeezed his eyes tight against the image of them forming in his mind. Later he’d wake from very different imaginings.

*****

“Fuck! Dammit, Steve!”

“Ow! Shit, baby.”

Brandon woke up on Michelle’s couch to yelling and thumping sounds in the bedroom. The room spun from all the Shiner and tequila just a few hours earlier, but it didn’t deter him. He raced down the hall and threw open the door to their room. Steve was sprawled out on the floor while Michelle sat up in the middle of the bed holding the bottom of her T-shirt up to her face, baring her belly and breasts. The shirt was spotted with blood. Brandon felt his face flush with a mix of anger and embarrassment and quickly averted his gaze, leaning down to pull Steve up by his neck before he decked him so hard he fell right back down to the floor.

Steve scrambled partway back up and grabbed Brandon by the waist of his jeans then swept his leg, bringing him down on top of him. Before he knew what was what, Steve had flipped them over and had Brandon pinned to the floor and was shouting, “What’s your fucking problem?”

"You!" Brandon yelled back. "Fuckin' hittin' your woman again."

"It was an accident," Michelle said as she leaned over the side of the bed, shirt pulled down again to cover herself. A trickle of blood slid down to her lip and she wiped at it with the back of her hand. "Nightmare. He sat up swinging and I took an elbow trying to get out of the way."

"Yeah," Steve said with a shove to Brandon's shoulder to punctuate it. "She's the abuser in the house. Knockin' me outta the bed and shit."

"Hey!" Michelle's indignation wasn’t so convincing when she started giggling.

"Get the fuck offa me." Brandon pushed up against Steve. "Your fat ass is heavy."

"Oh baby you know you like it," Steve teased as he settled between Brandon's thighs and leaned down toward his face making kissing noises. Michelle laughed again, but Brandon didn't. He felt himself go hot from the top of his head down his chest to settle in his groin.

Things got quiet fast and there was a tension running between them all that was new, but not. "Get off me," Brandon said again, his voice more hesitant this time. He closed his eyes and swallowed. "Please, Steve." He looked up at him again and repeated, "Please."

Steve shifted back and settled on his heels. Brandon looked over at Michelle for a second then pushed himself up from the floor and moved to the door, not looking back.

"What the hell just happened?" he heard Michelle ask as he pulled the door closed behind him.

*****

Michelle carefully rolled onto her side to look at him, rocking the hammock gently. "I heard what happens sometimes. In war."

Brandon looked over, his brow furrowed. "Huh?"

"Guys. Away from their wives and girlfriends for months at a time."

“Like now?” Steve had left three days earlier for five weeks of sniper school in Georgia. They hadn’t talked about where he might be assigned after. It was too much to assume he’d stay at Hancock. Brandon was fully expecting them to send him to Afghanistan. And Steve -- the idiot -- would say “yes sir” and pack his ghillie suit and go. At least they’d changed deployment terms to twelve months. Like it made a difference.

“No,” she replied. “Like the fifteen months you guys spent in Iraq.”

“Which time?” he asked trying to buy time to figure out how to reply.

He blanked his face and despite the desire to run, managed to still his nerves. He finally felt stable and safe, and while she could somehow move around the hammock without causing a disturbance, he’d end up with his face in the dirt if he so much as scratched his nose.

“Both. Either.”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” he lied.

"You know... No women... guys ... fool around." She said the last words quietly, shyly.

"Fool around?" He laughed even though he didn’t think it was funny. "Well... I guess maybe sometimes it happens." He _knew_ it happened. But how did you tell your best friend’s wife it had happened between you and her man?

"You ever..."

"Me?" He forced another laugh. He wished Steve were there, wondered how he would have answered the question. Their relationship -- _marriage_ now, he corrected himself -- was... different. Michelle was different.

She held his gaze until he looked away, tried to distract himself with the light filtering through the leaves above them. It didn’t work.

"When we were twelve" -- he stopped and swallowed -- "Steve stole a _Hustler_ from the bus station and we looked at it out at the ranch. Jerked off together."

" _Hustler_?" She laughed. "Definitely Steve’s choice."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He didn’t know if he should be offended or not.

"Nothing. Just... at twelve? You were probably so squeaky you thought _Playboy_ was hardcore. I'm amazed you didn't faint when he whipped it out... uh, the magazine that is."

That did get a laugh out of him. A real one. "Whipped it out, huh? Nice, Mitch. Such a lady."

"Shut up. You were the one jerkin’ off with my future husband." She smacked his shoulder and the hammock teetered. He panicked for a second before he was sure they weren’t tipping over.

It got quiet again and he swallowed, holding in his words like he’d always done. Not like Steve who wouldn’t shut up half the time, especially if he was drunk. Brandon... just held it all in, close to the chest. He _wanted_ to tell people things. Hell, he’d talked to Michelle before, opened up easily and told her everything, but the months back in Iraq ... they’d stripped away his voice.

He didn’t know how long he’d been lost in his head before Michelle ran her hand down his chest, stopping to rest low on his belly. "Is that it?" she asked, soft and gentle like she was easing a horse that hadn't been broke yet. “Nothing in Basic or all those months in Tikrit?”

He looked at her again and it felt like she was seeing into his soul. It seemed like forever and then finally he closed his eyes and said, "Last tour. In the showers... God, Mitch. I was fallin' apart. I just... he found me. Held me, you know. And ... helped me out. We never... never said nothin' about it. Just ... it just happened.” He didn’t tell her that the “he” was Steve. He didn’t have to. The way she asked, he figured she already knew anyway.

*****

"How was your weekend?" It was the first question his therapist asked every Monday. On Thursdays the first question was, "How were the last couple of days?" He thought Dave could use a thesaurus or something to mix it up. But he answered like he always did.

"All right, I guess."

The script continued from there. "Did you get drunk?"

"Yep."

"You know you shouldn't be drinking on your meds."

"Yep."

A nod and a look that Brandon kept expecting to be judgmental but never was. Dave was a Vet too. The first Gulf War. Got his leg blown off and was rewarded with a medical discharge. Said his own PTSD had ruined his marriage and pushed away his kids. Drank himself out of his home and into an alley in downtown Dallas. Some other Vet, a Vietnam dude who probably saw shit Brandon and Dave couldn't imagine -- not that it was a contest, ’cause blown-up kids were blown-up kids no matter where they lived -- dragged him into a shelter, got him clean and paying it forward.

Now Dave did his best to keep other guys from drinking themselves to death or eating a bullet, kept them from losing their families and friends, kept them from giving up and giving in to the nightmares and flashbacks. Brandon wondered if Dave would expect him to pay it forward when he got better. _If_ he got better.

He didn't think he had it in him to sit and listen to soldiers' shit day after day. It was hard enough listening to himself twice a week for fifty fucking minutes. But he figured if Dave got him through this shit, he’d come up with some way to show his thanks. He thought of Michelle when they’d visited Rico, how at ease she’d been with the men. He’d put on a good show for Rico, but it was hard to look at the guys. The scars, the amputations, the hope so many of them had despite everything. Michelle had taken it in stride. Still was -- volunteering over at the VA hospital a couple days a week.

"Steve still at Benning?"

"Yep."

Brandon kept waiting for Dave to say something like, "Stop saying 'yep' all the time." But he never did. Dave should be the one in sniper school; he sure had the patience.

"And you and Michelle..."

He raised an eyebrow at him.

Dave didn't even look at his notes -- Brandon appreciated that he remembered everything, even if he wouldn't admit to it out loud -- just said, "Last Thursday you said she kissed you on the back porch."

"Yep."

"Any more kisses? Something more?"

He turned and looked to the window. "I, uh... she's married to my best friend."

"Yep," Dave said in his best Brandon impersonation.

Brandon whipped his head around and then laughed at the grin on Dave's face. He grabbed his chest and said, "You wound me, man. Mocking my pain."

Dave chuckled at him and rolled his eyes. "I bet. So? Anything happen?"

He looked down at his boots as he nodded. They were dusty from the ranch. He'd spent Sunday night out there after Michelle had cornered him in the kitchen and tried to get him to talk about the night before. He'd hustled out the door so fast, he'd nearly made it to the curb before the screen door banged closed behind him.

"We uh... Saturday night we... wegotdrunkandmadelove."

"And?"

"And I ran." The “duh” was silent but clear.

"You say you 'made love' not 'had sex' or 'fucked'. Made love, Brandon. What's that mean?"

"It means I fucked my best friend's wife. That's all it means."

"You sure?"

"Look. He told me to take care of her. I don't think that's what he had in mind."

"No? You've had sex with both of them now."

"Fuck." Brandon got up and walked to the window, putting his back to Dave. "That mean something special, Doc?"

"Maybe. Maybe not." A beat passed before he asked, "Who started it?"

Brandon turned and looked at him, brow furrowed. "What?"

"This weekend. Who initiated things?"

"She was drunk," he said. "Likes tequila more'n's good for her."

"So she started it."

Brandon swallowed. Michelle wasn't a cheater or a whore. She'd just been drunk. And lonely. She loved Steve.

"Is that what you think? That she can't love Steve and want to be with you too?"

Damn he'd done that thinking out loud shit again. He didn't know which way was up half the time.

"They love each other."

"Sounds to me like maybe they love you."

*****

“Brandon.” He felt something... no, _someone_ shaking his shoulder. “Brandon, come on. Get up and come to the bed.”

“Wha?” Was he dreaming? He’d been in Iraq, searching a row of houses, taking fire.

“Brandon.” More shaking. It wasn’t the vibrations of a RPG launch. “Come on. You been yelling in your sleep. Come to bed and get some real rest.”

He opened his eyes and saw Michelle leaning over him; her hand was on his shoulder. She was in one of Steve’s grey ARMY T-shirts and a pair of boxers. The shirt was huge on her, yet did nothing to hide her body.

“Mitch. I can’t--“ he started.

“Just to sleep. That’s all. I promise not to molest ya.” She smiled and he couldn’t resist. Steve was going to kill him when he got home the next day.

He levered himself up and followed her down the hall. She pulled a spare blanket from the linen closet on the way and told him he could sleep on top of the covers if he was more comfortable that way.

In the bedroom he stared down at the intertwined rings in the middle of the quilt his own mama had made nearly five years earlier, just waiting for them to finally get married so she could give it to them. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before laying down at the edge of the bed. Steve’s side. The last time he’d slept here... No thinking about that now. It wasn’t going to happen again. Especially not once Steve found out. And he would. One look at Brandon and Steve would know. They’d never been able to hide anything from one another.

He felt Michelle drape the blanket over him and then crawl into bed on the other side. “Relax,” she said as she reached over and combed her fingers through his hair.

The next thing he knew he could feel the warmth of the sun on his arm and there were words whispered beside him. "I don't know what to do for him. The docs at the VA say to give it time.”

“He’s seeing someone, right?” _Steve. Shit._ What time was it?

“Yeah, he’s got a therapist. And he’s on meds now. But he still has dreams and--"

"We'll get him through this, baby."

As it really clicked in his head that Steve was home and Brandon was in his bed, with his _wife_ , Brandon started to panic. He sat up and tried to slide to the end of the bed, but was pulled back by strong hands behind him. “It’s okay. I got ya, BK.”

“You don’t--“

“Just relax, man. It’s okay.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them. _Wake up_ he told himself. _This isn’t real. Wake up._

“You’re awake,” Michelle said. “It’s all right. Steve’s here. I’m here. It’s all right.”

“It’s not...” Not what? he thought. Not what it looks like? Not what Steve thinks? Not gonna happen again?

Michelle was not someone Brandon would ever describe as soft. But her lips, the skin on the inside of her wrist and the underside of her breasts? That night had been amazing. And now, her touch as she ran her hands through his hair, her voice telling him it would be okay, contrasted against Steve's strong, arm wrapped around his waist, his firm chest behind him. A sureness he hadn’t known since that night in the showers.

Brandon let himself be held and drifted in and out, nightmares held temporarily at bay by the warmth and tenderness surrounding him. Instead of nightmares, he relived happy memories. Tommy smiling and playing his guitar. Michelle and Steve dancing at their wedding. His mama making his favorite cake for some birthday. A twelve-year-old Steve pulling a _Hustler_ out of his backpack and grinning like a fool. Michelle arching her back and moaning his name as he pressed inside of her.

The words "love you" seeped through from outside and he knew things would be okay. He was home.


End file.
